


Making Paradise

by Ivorynia



Series: Matt Murdock Needs and Deserves a Happy Ending [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ass-Kicking, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Awkward Romance, BAMF Karen Page, BAMF Women, Coping, Dancing, Depression, Eventual violence, F/M, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Foggy Nelson Is a Good Bro, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Hurt Matt Murdock, I want everyone to be fixed ok?, Matt Murdock Angst, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Matt Murdock is a Good Bro, Matthew Murdock deserves to Be happy, Panic Attacks, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption, Service Dogs, Social Anxiety, but like, doggo is the real MVP, everyone deserves happiness, family trauma, happy!matt, hes starting to see the world differently, i cant promise there wont be triggers or too many feels, i'll do my best to not get him out of character guys, like actual genres, matt is a lovestruck fool, matt learns his purpose, matt learns how to dance, mental health talk, music as therapy, mutual self-discovery, not exactly your damsel in distress, parents who are spawns of satan, photography as therapy, possible kidnapping, running from parents, scenario descriptions, some martial arts, tango!matt, the world isnt so bleak matt, toxic parents, writing as it goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-08-24 20:51:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16647554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivorynia/pseuds/Ivorynia
Summary: Karen got the chance to help Frank regain his life, marrying him in the process.Fogs and Marci started a life of their own, talks about another wedding in the air.Matt, though still fighting his solitude and thirst for fighting crime, tries to be happy for them. He tries.But will he ever be really, truthfully happy? Is he willing to let her in, and help him save himself?Moira Revmal hates the cliche in her life, but it's had to make due now: new city, new life, bla bla.But what happens when it comes with night terrors and fears of certain common things?New to this part of New York, Moira works hard for a better, more peaceful life. She would be thrilled with sedentary, even.What will she do when her nightmares become a true omen, opening bleeding sounds?Will she revert to her primal survival instincts? Or can the once Devil of Hell's Kitchen do his final and most vital appearance?Here we meet broken people willing to fix themselves for their own sake, and how truthfully painful it is to move onward in life, while making the best they can with their past, for their future. This is how people build bridges. This is how they cry tears of hope, making paradise.





	1. (You) Cut Through...

There’s something about the streets each day that tells you how’s it gonna go, just by walking through them. Excessive fumes of clogged cars in the street, obscenities in the air and the less-than-occasional smell of weed and tobacco from shady ‘ _I’m high but watching you’_ people perched by their windows prove once more, for the countless time in recent history, that today will be another love-it-or-shove-it day.

A really average day in New York, really.

But that’s not the focus of today, walking down the street. Today there’s a mission, a purpose on each step: a job interview call came from a microscopic but promising law firm, ensuring a highly permanent position and a small, well-built office team, willing to… take anyone, basically. In all honesty, they are the ones that seem to be looking for a job, and not the other way around.

Even then, her pace grows stronger, a little bouncy due to the curly four legs strutting a little bit ahead of her; a cute, properly labelled blue vest engraved with the appropriate labels the weapon of choice to wear on her chest. Just seeing the waggly but alert tail in front of her gives a smile to her dark, smooth complection.

Every square, long street of Hell’s Kitchen shrunk down, her companion making the walk to the weather-worn, crispy tan brick building a passing thought. Now, in front of the redish door, her heart races at a steady beat, strong and somewhat defiant of whatever is behind it, up these steps. By her hip, the gentle weight of a pitch black ball of fur nudges her in with calm confidence, grounding her once more.

One more breath, one more check at her clothes, her partner in crime, her bag… yes, it’s time.

 

Streets are loud and rowdy nowadays, even early in the morning. It’s winter season, and everyone’s cold and stressed about the pair of socks they saw at the chinese shop, or that really expensive phone with way too many versions of itself out there. Honestly, it’s getting harder for Matt to not hear it in the background, which gives him the most annoying headache to ever linger in his temples, straining his blood vessels a little too much against the rim of his shades. The office air smells of damp dust and humidity; small particles of it all a free provider of morning facial twitches.

Last few nights have been way too calm, which is great since really, all indicates it’s time to put the suit down--the devil down--for good. It also gives his mind the chance to roam free, listen to sounds that are nonexistent, find tension and agony where there’s only silence. Even as a chance to (very slowly) get back in touch with the real, daylight world and a healthy sleeping schedule, all this free time is flat out getting on Matt’s nerves. Something that seems to be iconically constant through the last… God knows how long… has been his acidic humor. Masking it to clients is easy, but Karen and Foggy know--they always seem to, lately.

Foggy suggested not sleeping again, going back to meditation, which Matt looked into, only to find out that the meager 4 hours of sleep or less he got sparsely every 24 hours on the daily were not enough anymore. Napping at work stopped being the course of action sometime ago (whenever Karen and Foggy saw him in his I’m-real-deep-in-though-don’t-bother-me pose with a headphone on, he wasn’t exactly listening to the Constitution). Now, he needs that sleep in one bulk, sometimes early at night, others before the alarm rings. What part of sleeping, exactly, was it that bothered him, he didn’t know, which frustrated him even more today, sitting on his desk with a bagel and coffee, feeling actual hunger a little over 8a.m.

“Dude, you look... I don't even know what you look like. Think you can charm our potential secretary like that, buddy?” Foggy’s voice just cut through whatever energy was hanging over the office.

“Morning to you too. Foggy, remind me _who’s_ idea was it to _interview, consider and hire_ an actual person _with actual pay,_ let alone have an interview done first thing in the morning?” Matt's rubbing his forehead now, voice low and grinded.

“That, my friend, is a perfect question for--”

“ _I,_ no, _we_ need help with all the paperwork and clerical stuff, Matt. We went through this already yesterday after I made the call, and a week before that when we posted the announcement in the subway,... Or somewhere.” Karen’s voice rings out of nowhere, one of the countless times he’s been unaware of anyone’s overall presence in the last few months. His fingers twitch for a second before speaking.

“Well good morning to you too, Karen. Thank you for having us into consideration when moving forward with this decision. I'm sure our pockets will appreciate it.”

“Oh shut it, Murdock. Your ever-improving sleep and overall chaotic schedule will be kissing my heels in less than a week.”

“Don’t you mean toes?”

“Those are reserved for Frank to kiss.”

“Hey! I thought we had seniority custody privileges when it comes to Karen Time.” Froggy protests almost too earnestly, making Karen walk over to Matt’s door with a steady pace. Frank has done her good.

“You guys have me scheduled for Fridays after work at Josie's, even Saturdays on occasions, per your own concessions to me as a newlywed; something about divorces on the first year and Matt’s bachelor status being a homewrecker. My husband, of course, is very pleased, and I must admit I’ve gotten used to easy nights not running for my life, digging into weird people and stories in my cozy apartment, so.” Matt can feel the heat of her shoulders rise and fall in a shrug, smug smile on her voice, his muscles relaxing with a growing smile:

_His goal was met. His city--no--his friends are safe._

“There’s someone here, climbing up the stairs.” Matt announces and stands up, putting on his suit jacket calmer than usual, his grinded coffee bean voice somewhat airy. “It’s a woman… and a _dog_?” His brows scrunch down, as if frowning will give his listening some sort of third eye. His head cocks downwards, then snaps a bit to the side, smelling the clean fur, listening to the steady beats getting closer to the office.

Matt can hear Karen and Foggy in their shared lobby, straightening their perfectly straight clothes, their hearts beating as strongly as the one in their hallway. Grabbing his cane from the corner of his office door, Matt makes his way out of it, fixing his suit unconsciously as well; a trait of the Nelson, Murdock and Page firm by now, apparently. But he knows why he’s straightening up: that heartbeat, that scared but rebellious heartbeat creating a file in his memory, though unwanted. The closer it gets, the more it alters his own, and for the first time in a good handful of years, he can’t understand why this entire stranger is etching herself in his memory: long, brisk strides for her height, every step unconsciously strong not only in sound, but in presence, coordinated and graceful and a bit more confident than she thinks.

Everything zeroes into the front door of their office, the ringing sound left by all five heartbeats, including the dog’s, dulling the rest of his body. Why are they all this nervous is something that, while Karen walks to open the door, keeps rolling in his mind like his body in a pile of cold silk sheets, unable to sleep, restless.

“Good morning, welcome to Nelson, Murdock and Page. You must be here for the interview, right? Please, come on in, miss…”

“Moira Revmal. You must be Karen. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Before we continue, I’d like to introduce my Service dog, Raven. She will be sitting with us through our interview, so I find it appropriate to introduce her.” Moira's smile is almost sheepish, a hand waving between dog and humans in quiet presentation, her thick, coily hair almost a cotton pillow that flows around her. Taking his chance, Foggy smiles and shakes her hand warm as a gingerbread man.

“Miss Revmal, lady Raven. Franklin "Foggy" Nelson. Karen insisted that you were the perfect candidate for our firm and, honestly, there’s no attorney that could go against miss Page. Speaking of, I’d like to present my partner, **_Matthew Murdock_**.” Right on cue, Karen pinches Matt in the ribs harder than necessary and nudges him forward, startling a quick ‘ _I just fell asleep in class and now I have to answer a question’_   smile to his now pinkish lips. He’s sure Moira notices his mental absence, but somehow she’s not showing any signs--or he’s not catching them, whichever comes first. Giving two steps forward, Matt reaches out to Foggy’s shoulder, standing at his side and distance, those two steps giving him his attorney posture.

“Miss Revmal, Matt Murdock.” Stretching his hand, he can feel her warmth snaking itself inside his sleeve, and then… her hand. Its strength and softness, the candid spirit packed in her palm coaxing out a soft  _‘I drank coffee and ate an actual bagel this morning’_ Murdock smile smack onto his cheeks.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Murdock.” Her fingers strengthen their grip after the first shake, filling Matt’s mental blackboard with data and erasing it at the same time, confusing him even more.

“Please, call me Matthew, o-or Matt. Pleasure’s all mine. Karen insisted we did a personal interview right after finishing the one by phone. Actually, it was her letting us know you were scheduled for today at 8:30 in the morning but well, details. Either way, I’m glad that you accepted our interview offer. I’m eager to see myself who miss Page qualified yesterday as a perfect and suitable candidate, as is my partner, Foggy.”

“I'll make sure to not disappoint then, Matthew.” There is something in the way his hand feels that leaves his senses reeling, almost thrilled. He has her warmth engraved now; her scent a mix of gardenia, mint and coconut that Hell’s Kitchen and its chilly sidewalks couldn’t take away from her skin. Any tremble on the corners of her voice is gone, leaving a strong but warm, sweet and velvety voice rumbling from her chest. Matt can feel her height now, too, her forehead by the base of his nose without heels. Moira’s slow but steady mental image start to take shape, making Matt pivot in his toes for a second, pocketing his right hand, flashing his _‘straight outta college’_ smile, face angled slightly both up and down like he can, ears catching a certain spark in her beat once more.

“Something tells me you won’t.” Matt closes case with more sunshine than he woke up with, and it'll certainly cost him later.

Foggy takes one step to the side, face scrunched like a confused panda without his bamboo stick at this classic, albeit recently uncharacteristic _‘I’ll charm your socks off’_ Matt Murdock. With the back of his eye he has to make sure Karen is into this, eating it up like cake and, sure enough, she has a bloody fork in her hand, a predatory smile on her face, claiming a Murdock kebab after this interview. For just a second, Foggy tunes Matt the charmer out and thinks, just what has Karen done, exactly.

Like a witch reading his mind, she steps forward, her _‘I have a story to dig out’_ sweet-as-pie face, inviting everyone to sit and start the interview before any clients arrive at the office for their scheduled appointments. Pulling seats onto one side of Karen’s desk, they sit down--Karen in between Matt and Foggy as the interview conductor. In front of them Moira who, with a really relaxed conversation for someone being under pressure, opens her almost jarringly organized binder named _**Law Notes**_ with more data than what Foggy has inside his own briefcase; heck, his own _computer_. She could probably give him or Matt the boot for all he knows. Next to him, Karen smiles and takes a breath, making a stellar transition into ‘ _reporter journalist_ ’.

They grow so fast.

“Well Moira… shall we begin?” Karen’s voice was so calm, confident; Moira rebuked with a transition of her own: dark, plump-colored eyes piercing through them, slowly making this her element. Foggy then labelled Moira’s demeanor as a _‘I know this case is mine so let me enamor the jury’_ attorney stance. Just a few questions in, and he could see Matt fully invested, polygraphing every single crack, nook and cranny with delight. Seeing Matt not find a dent in this woman at plain sight told him all he needed to know.

She’s in.


	2. Scared Of Shadows

It's sometime past 10pm and Foggy decides it's time to call it a night because, according to his less-than-stellar accounting skills, there's no way in hell NM&P can afford overtime, _ever_. The moment Moira got hired, Karen went on an office update rampage: Suddenly a bunch of papers needed filing, client's profiles had to be made, office had to be cleaned, and every single chore no one's been aware of in the last millenia made its appearance.

Matt has no problem with cleaning or his office and files, considering how often he vacuums, mops, wipes and updates his archives. Every cleaning product and utensil in their office is there because Matt sneaks them in every day, to the point where Karen has to talk him through taking different versions of the same products home because there's just no space for coffee and items of actual nutritious value.

 

Now, a month and a half later, they're as close a “pseudo-family” as Moira has in her life, even though she's continuously keeping them at much more than arm's length; breaching their interactions beyond the office, where it will morph into something even closer to home is out of the equation. 

That's a risk she won't run into again.

It is always hard: seeing them bicker through the day, with her only laughing in the background of their daily lives to the sound of their symbiosis, but not moving any further than a very  interactive coworker friendship. 

To hear Franklin plea to her on a daily basis to join them for a drink after work or to just let them in a bit, as well as Karen's counseling interventions every now and then makes it all so much more taxing. It only details more vividly the void she's trying to live in, both for self-preservation and that of these three people now around her.

Last week, Karen and Franklin told her about the Fisk case and, after they closed (and won) a case involving an abusive-partner-turned-kidnapper suing his victim for battery and assault past self-defense, she knew she was in the right place: she can trust them with what she has to reveal for their safety and her sake. 

Although, she sees something in Murdock--his sudden silence after their first two weeks working with her, occasional bruises and cuts in places you can't get them if you go through the cheap excuses he gives, how professionally curt he is with her, though well-mannered, how they look at one another when she asks about his injuries--that assures her there's something they're keeping from her; something as volatile as what she's wanting to confide in them. This is strongly suggested by the only other person in this city that knows the source of her identity. 

He's the only one lingering around the corners of her life just enough to provide confidence that a new, somewhat sedentary life can be made under the white noise of this city.

His one condition: to let Franklin, Murdock and Karen know about the largest part of her recent history, even if not her life itself. The biggest reason? She won't like it when they start to ask and dig in, digging in good. 

Going down the staircase first and fast at 10:45 on the dot, the conversation she had through the phone with the only tangible connection she has from her darkest times echoes inside of her, as if it would give her an epiphany about how to do what she knows has to be done:

 

_ “They are good at connecting dots, especially Karen. If you don't come clean, you won't like how shit will explode in your face, kid. And if they suspect something is wrong with you like Karen told you, they will look you up and track you down --which I know damn well Karen is already doing, using whatever journalist shit she does to figure things out even when I told her not to. That's just how they work.”  _

_ On the other side of the line, she can hear his coarse voice prickling her cheek while he muttered something wistfully to himself. Then there was silence, and she waited, knowing he's putting the logic behind his next words:  _

_ “Most of all, watch out for Murdock. I gave my word I wouldn't tell you why, and I intend on keeping it that way.”  _

_ There was something in his voice and statement that resembled the strike of lightning before its sound busts through your body. Instead of the shake she expected, the voice on the other end softened: a pleading father's voice towards someone who's as much a family to him as Karen: _

_ “Just… be careful, okay kid?”  _

_ In that moment, Moira could feel his calloused hands reaching her face softly, then his arms around her tightly, a whisper just by her ear with one of his hands in the back of her head; a protective posture he took the last time they met. Just recalling his little expressions of affection made her feel less lonely in her fight. _

_ “Okay. I promise I will. Just because you asked so nicely.”  _

_ A short laugh on the other side of the line was her answer, before taking now a stern brother's voice: _

_ “Remember: only one call, just one, and I'll get to wherever you are. Don't say anything, just dial the number. I'll know.”  _

_ Even on the spot she's standing in her life, she smiled genuinely, salty droplets pooling onto her bottom lip. _

 

Stepping out into the freezing air, the memory fades with each snowflake pickling at her nose. Karen left the office early today, her reasons unclear. It’s just Franklin, Murdock and her leaving the building, both of them stepping out the front door deep in conversation, Franklin's voice definitely being the loudest.

“Okay guys, one last look before we lock shop? No one left anything of value at the office, besides a piece of our youth and brain cells?” 

Behind her, Murdock’s laughing carelessly, something she's seen about three times, maybe less. This gesture stops her, turning her head just a bit to look at them, her body facing the direction towards her apartment. Both of them are by the door, making sure they've got everything, tightening their jackets and scarves to hide from the biting cold.

“I'm pretty sure you can make due without those, Fogs.” 

Murdock had a lazy smile in his face, tired but genuine in his grumpy way. For someone like her, as skilled at her old job as she was, Murdock had a flicker that shifted each day, making him unreadable. Paying attention to it means she will get involved with everyone at the office, will bring them all to what should be her personal circle. No, revealing her life for their safety and so they'd stop asking so many damn questions was enough. With a nod to no one specific, Moira turns around and starts walking, her ears still catching the bickering of two semi-bitter lawyers.

“As if college wasn't enough for almost a decade of our lives.” Franklin chirps out lightly.

“Hey, at least we get paid with U.S. currency 90% of the time from our clients.” 

_ True, although no one minds if that hikes up to 100.  _ Moira thinks and nods at Murdock’s smooth comment, seeing his unreadably expressive face in her mind's eye. Her cheeks rise slightly, only for her forehead to push them down with sobering tension.

_ No time for that. Focus! _

Making her steps longer, Moira turns the curb and leaves any temptation of bonding behind.

  
  


Meanwhile, Foggy and Matt stay somewhere around the building, talking more than walking, really. It's neither normal nor unusual for Matt to  _ be around _ at this time, even if he only goes to his apartment on most days--Foggy and Karen made him swear under actual oath to always tell them when he'd go out with his suit, and discuss whether or not it was necessary, just to be ready in case he needs urgent care. 

You know, ‘cause Matt’s that one kid that can't  _ not  _ get scrapes and bruises each time he goes to the playground. 

In all their dry bickering, only Matt notices when, more quietly than what's normal, Moira rushes around the corner, promptly avoiding them both. Foggy can't be more oblivious and continues with his Friday Complain Day session:

“Yeah, now we're able to afford actual alcohol and not sewer water to drown our miseries and the constant loom of debt.” 

Foggy's voice is somber with an optimistic note, something he's mastering since the day Matt got to his dorm, to use it for dramatic (and sometimes legal) purposes.

“You're not in debt, Foggy. Not financially, at least. To the community? Absolutely. To the Bar Association?” Matt shrugs nonchalantly “On occasions. Although, there's two things keeping you from losing your shit.” Now Matt has his I-always-have-the-right-answer attitude, which baffles Foggy more than it should.

“And those are…?”

“Well, there's no more of Karen's coffee, which is always a plus in my book. And then, there's Josie's. Now  _ those  _ are facts worth being in debt with.” 

Matt points out with his light, I'm-low-key-making-a-case voice, his face and shoulders as expressive and relaxed as Foggy hasn't seen them in a long, long time. 

Which reminds him.

“Speaking of, we should thank our new barista for her stupendous work at supplying us with godly caffeine. Hey Moira--” 

Foggy turns around to find out they're the only idiots still by their building, the person in question long gone. He does a slow spin with his arms open, as if his questioning stance will have her jump out of the lighting post. Matt listens to his pulse quicken, feels the electricity in Foggy’s body running faster, same way it runs when he's having a rough patch with Marci, a case, or both. 

“She's gone. Didn't even wished us a good weekend, or anything. Matt, why is she like that? What is she hiding? If it wasn't for her clean slate on the archives and at the office, I'd say we're working with some Daredevil 2.0, except this one disappears without saying a word. Just--can’t you figure out what's biting her tail? Shake some things around, maybe?”

Foggy’s I'm-failing-at-something voice catches Matt somewhat off guard. From all of them, Foggy’s always been the sentimental one: caring a lot for people potentially close to him, even if their actions are questionable in their best days. Maybe that's what's keeping him around, even with all of Matt's attempts at separating from him before. Matt holds Foggy’s arm and walks briskly, his voice quiet, tensing his body the more he talks:

“I already have. Just last night I got what I wanted. What I found out…” 

His breath catches and Foggy does a double take. Last time Matt behaved like this was at the start of the Fisk investigation, which makes Foggy feel even more desperate, agitating at the almost impending cycle before them. 

“What is it?!” 

The energy crackling around Foggy makes Matt question just how much should he tell right now, settling for secrecy with a long sigh.

“It-it's not really comforting, Foggy. I can't tell you anything just yet: I need to confirm it first. Just for the sake of accuracy and you guy's safety. As soon as I get around it--”

“Matt, just because Karen and I agreed that you should do your side of the research on a more… dynamic way, doesn't mean you should or can go back to that aspect of your life.” 

Foggy has to stop the train of thought that Matt is taking, and immediately feels his chest strain at the thought that he was the first to consent--and even encourage--Matt to take on the suit to find information about Moira. Their experience with Fisk made them look at her background information with more than suspicion, and after debating it, they all decided this is a measure that had to be taken. Signs of a setback in Matt’s mental and physical health equal immediate abortion of any and all investigation using Daredevil, and that’s what Foggy is seeing.

“I know, Foggy. I'm doing as best as I can to put the suit on just when it's strictly necessary.” 

Which is true; he's not been wanting to go behind their backs on his night patrols, but something in him still misses that rage that comes out in the shadows. The tension in his voice tells Foggy just as much.

“Is it strictly necessary for you to put on the suit at all after this research is over? Has it been necessary before Moira even entered the firm?” 

At this point none of them are walking, stopping at the intersection where they separate some nights, as it's been for the last months. Matt stays quiet, working his jaw, tasting the words in his mouth, Foggy staring long and hard, expecting no reply…

“... Only on occasion, when I can't really… get the city out of my head. It just--it haunts me, Foggy. I know I can have it better and-and I want to. I am trying to. But up there, in those roofs? That's the only place I feel at peace, truly at peace, during the night. Just seeing that my cit--that Hell's Kitchen has nothing more than the usual petty crimes lets me sleep better, tune it out better.” 

His voice is so small, so desperate, Foggy thinks the city might drown him.

“What happens when there's something else besides petty crimes ringing in your ears? What then?”

“What do you want me to say, Foggy? That I go to bed just the same?” 

Matt spits out, his face set hard, hands gripping his cane. Something about how personal Matt takes whatever happens in this city grinds at Foggy's rationale, his voice and body tensing with this predictable, yet unappealing, answer.

“ _Yes, that's exactly what I want you to say,_ along something like 'not without calling the police first, so they can do their actual job’.”

“We both know that's not how it goes, Foggy. Putting the suit down completely… that's something I haven't been able to do.” 

There. It's out for Foggy to take or leave, who takes a breath, as if he's the one with less weight on him. Is there something he can say to these words, really? After figuring no one wrote a manual for friends of a vigilante, he settles on gratitude.

“Well no shit Matt… thanks for telling me, tho.”

“Foggy, listen I…” 

Matt now takes what feels like the thousandth breath in the last ten minutes, and Foggy almost falls on his ass by the fact that Matthew Murdock is actually speaking _at all_. Maybe it's time for him and Karen to look into funeral arrangements, just in case Matt kicks the bucket. He puts it on a quick mental note and tunes back in when Matt speaks again, head low, avoiding Foggy's face, words just stumbling out yet forced at the same time: 

“I don't know how long it will take me to shift out of it and adjust. I don't know how long until my senses stop--stop torturing me. I don't know how long it will take, until I can say for sure that Daredevil can go away. I need you to know this, Fogs. I need you to understand that, this is my reality and right now, I have to just, I don't know, make due with what I've got. It's--it’s really hard, Foggy.” 

If Karen were there, she'd be sobbing her life away and for the first time in a while, Foggy was grateful to be an optimistically outgoing and blunt person with a solid dose of realism.

“I know Matt. Well, actually I don't, and I can't imagine it, either. But at the same time, you're my best friend, who sees the world differently and suffers because of it. That's something I can understand. Just… don't leave us again. Please?”

“I don't intend to, I promise. Not with you and Karen on my heels--”

“And sister Maggie. I'm pretty sure she'd make you pray The Holy Mary for about ten years if you leave us again, so…” There's a shrug at the end of his words from both of them, knowing full well Matt has yet to adjust to have his mother be just that and not another nun, making anything Maggie-related some sort of itching powder he scurries away from… for now.

“... Yeah. Her too.” 

Matt nods to the floor in Foggy's direction and, maybe he's just too tired, but there's a small tug at Matt's lips that's almost a smile. It went away as fast as it came: 

“Foggy, I'm heading out faster to my place, so just go to Marci from here. I have to… pay a visit tonight.” 

The smoke in Matt's voice set all the alarms off on Foggy.

“Matt, please don't tell me it's Moira.” 

Another pause, another glance at the floor with a deep swallow. If Foggy's stomach drops any further, he knows it will touch the center of the Earth if there's no ground under it. The iron in his voice tries to pick up, only reaching up to something between desperation and trying to push an annoying motion at court. 

“Shit Matt, there's ways of doing this, okay? Let's not drop back into old habits. What will you ask her? _What will you do to her_?”

More silence. More desperate motion.  More stomach drops. 

“Matt we've only known her for six weeks if we're being specific. And even if we don't know anything substantial about her, _she's still a woman_. And honestly, parting from her service dog, who's _clearly_ trained for PTSD, as well as how edgy her nerves and reflexes are, I’m one hundred percent sure she's not having the moment of her life right now.”

“I know. I don't want to harm her. I really can't bring myself to do that, even if I had to.” 

It's something that just crossed his mind, but Matt knows not so deep down these words are as true as they get when it comes to Moira: the time they've spent working--even with silence from her part--around her shows them that, whatever her past, all she wants is an almost disgusting amount of normalcy, even if there's nothing normal about her at all.

“ _What if_ , for some crazy reason, she takes off your mask or figures out who you are--you know how good she is, intellectually and intuitively. You also know her ears are _almost_ as good as yours--what then? _Will you hurt her, Matt_?” 

There it is, that side of Foggy Matt loved from the beginning: your atypical, heart-on-my-sleeve lawyer. There's one pause, then another until Matt croaks out:

“I still won't harm her--physically or otherwise.” 

There's just an edge to Matt's voice that Foggy can't shake out, and it takes all he has to not have his heart run away into the Hudson.

“Matt please--”

“Goodnight Foggy.” 

That's it. That's how far this case went. There's no delay plea that can stop the tap-tapping of Matt's cane on the other side of the street now, going across an alleyway before slipping into it, his shape coming less than a minute after on the rooftop before vanishing in the shadows.

Foggy starts walking on his side, faster than usual this time. When he understands he's out of Matt's radar, he pulls out his phone and dials, sure she'll pick up. On the third ring, Foggy can't recognize his voice once it comes out.

“Karen, we need to go to Moira's, and fast. Matt's getting to her, and he's not dressed for a dinner date. I'll send you my location.”

There's a pause in both lines, the statement just hanging on by a thread between them. After sending his location and hearing Karen rustle on the other side, Foggy adds up, the ominous tremor not lost to either of them:

“And Karen… bring Frank with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes! Frank Castle is here! He's sneaking his recovering head in here, since he's part of all of this, in a way. I hope you guys enjoy what he has to give in this story!
> 
> I also listen to a song/songs and base my chapter in it/its feels. Same goes with the titles for the chapters. Lemme know if you'd like t know them!


	3. And In The Storm You Bring I Manifest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Thank you for sticking around! This one has blood, fight, guns, bonding... the usual. Devil!Matt is my new favorite thing to write. Enjoy!

It's only been about half an hour since he put the black clothes on, his only intention to ask Moira his questions and go back home. All that's going on with her, the firm, every secret he felt creeping over the walls, under Karen's desk… Karen. She knows more than anyone else, her heartbeat strains against the chains on her lips every day, whenever she's around Moira.

 

Taking a dive and roll into the next rooftop, all he catches is his own heart, the stench of adrenaline slicking his skin and just the constant, glitching, pulsing of his brain yearning to go berserk at the glimmer of anyone being in danger by one person, one stranger of a past unknown to anyone but, possibly, Karen. 

 

Karen, who is safe, in her house, living with Frank and out of any harm Moira could ever bring to her by default. Because it's Frank. This leaves Matt with his one task, his sole purpose for wearing his black clothes and Muay Thai ropes.

 

Three steps in, and his own instincts floor him: if Matt’s panic walks the Devil out, there's not one thing that won't turn sideways. For all he knows, she's innocent of all the things every criminal listed to him through the pain of crunching bones. For all he knows, she's a monster waiting to destroy what little is built of his world at any given time. These two extremes crash behind his mask, snarling his lips with each snap of his head, each though banging against his skull like a broken metronome.

 

_ “What if, for some crazy reason, she takes off your mask or figures out who you are? What then? Will you hurt her, Matt?” _

 

There it is, the voice of reason behind his every move. The one person that can talk him through anything, because he's right. Foggy always is.

 

He can't go with panic and anger to… _‘speak’_ with someone who probably lives in fear.

 

Her apartment is just two blocks away: he can hear the low hum of her body coming out of a shower with nature sounds, as she does religiously each night before the rest of her bedtime routine. If Matt focuses enough, he might remember its order, the smell of hot water on her skin from the times he’s scouted her after work, both out of caution and curiosity. 

 

He knows there's time before she goes to bed. Before he loses the courage to do this.

 

Reshuffling the sounds of the city, his ears look for an outlet--a decompressor--and he finds it: a pack that has been causing trouble decide to rob a weapon store three buildings down to his right. If he doesn’t stop them before the cops arrive, they will not only leave with money, but with guns big enough to level them up from store thugs to dangerous bank robbers. Taking into account that these are the remains of The Dogs of Hell--the peculiar stench of leather, days old sweat and fuel branding them--the Devil considers this detour almost as god-given after landing quietly on the rooftop that joins one building with the other, where the weapons store is. His fists can’t hold it in, not for longer.

 

If there is one item he is glad he’s able to bring back from Midland Circle, it is the extensive pole. with a flick of his wrist, the wire stretches and jolts, smashing the scarce lighting, plunging the alleyway into an almost-palpable darkness. There’s a total of six men: one armed with an oxidized kitchen knife by the back of the van, another in the van itself--the driver--two others are inside picking out stocks, one going between van and building with their goods, and the other holding the owners hostages. That is, until the dark left them at the mercy of the Devil.

 

Just for a moment, his lips open to savor the taste of fear in their cold sweat, drenching a thirst he decides to ignore--but cannot tame--until now. There’s a pleasure and thrill that comes with his position of power: his opportunity of taking the upper hand, for once, in a way he feels that matters where the law fails; in a way he can truly steam the frustrations of his infinitely inconclusive life into something, somehow. Just to allow himself some momentum, he waits, the panic settling into each of them in the form of denial and… there, there it is: that feeble moment of relaxation before receiving what they know is coming for them. This, is what makes the adrenaline in his skin stand on end in each pore, screaming ecstatically, until his lips form a haunting grin, until his body trembles in exquisite agony, unable to decide just where to start.

 

The three idiots inside decide to walk out after hearing curses and screams of alert, the owners by the back entrance held at gunpoint lazily by one of them. When the other four make the round towards the entrance of the alleyway--because of course, a threat will face them out in the open street--the Devil drops onto who is meant to hold the hostages; the landing so brutal, the man’s body barely makes any sound when it slams into the floor, knocked out cold. There’s only seconds before the rest turns around, but the Devil can spare a few to delightfully intake the broken bones under his boots.

 

“Go inside, grab the revolver hidden by the open locker with your phone, and hide in the bathroom to the left. lock the door, call the cops. Hurry!” His words don’t make it past him when the owners--a seemingly gentle old man and who sounds to be his daughter--are already on the move, obeying as frantically as possible. With a strong but swift kick, the Devil jams the door shut behind him, the booming sound in an otherwise quiet night increasing the thugs’ panic tenfold, hearts racing being his own personal orchestra. Coming around the van, they face their nightmare, dressed in black with roped fists, his breath coming out with the quiet strength of a condensation-clouded storm… until they all lose track of him, only to hear a strangled scream to their right.

 

All they can notice, all they can feel, is pain: bones breaking, fists flying, heads smashing, splatters of blood in the concrete. One of them tries to swing a wrench at him, but his arm is to heavy, too slow, too easy to lock and break in one move. A flash of white, hot light passes the man's eyes with the feeling of his arm breaking in at least three parts, before his head collides unceremoniously once, twice, three times on the edge of the van’s back door, his world turning dark. Two come at him with metal pipes next, swinging at the same time from different angles. His hands find the pipes mid-swing and jumping, his boots connect square with their chests, their iron tip clipping them both in the jaw while the Devil maneuvers a backflip mid-air to smash the head of the man using the oxidized knife flat into the concrete at the same time the other two splatter and crumble into the brick wall. The knife skids and slides somewhere, but that’s not his priority: the owners are in the bathroom, as instructed. The cops are crossing the entrance of the block before this one to turn into the street. All he can hear is his own breathing, the sound of his voice laced into it the final puffs the Devil can let out before he’s put away. 

 

He doesn’t know the driver has the knife until the man plunges at him, the wide-arched punch wanting to deflect the attack coming a second too late. The sting on his left thigh is almost instant, the angle of the cut feeling to be on a too ambiguous of a spot for the level of pain and blood oozing out. The driver tries to recover after missing the rocket-launched punch by a slip of his shoe in icy pavement, smiling at the hiss of the Devilˋs pain. Whatever hope he has is short: his head violently dents the side of the van thanks to a knee to the cheek, a fiery asteroid that crashes into his head mercilessly twice, the voice of the Devil growling a brief warning before collision.

 

One of the police units takes the turn into the street, barely giving him any time to reach the roof where he was just moments ago. Feeling the cold of the night, the rushing wind reminds him of the snow storm just minutes from happening. The cut, he notices, is actually a stab wound deeper than he initially thought, a solid inch of oxidized knife scratching his bone, icy air freezing the blood and piercing pain dampening his pants. Pulling out a handful of zip ties, Matt links them until they're long enough to circle his thigh and joints them on the top part of the wound to work as a thin tourniquet. 

 

Hoping the puncture wound won't expand or have him bleed out, Matt makes his way slowly toward Moira's. Allowing the air to slow his bleeding while picking his way better through the roofs, his feet land in her fire escape with a small crunch. His body is now registering the cold, shivering almost uncontrollably, making his feet unsteady under the first waves of snow in the storm that now looms over him. His hands glide by the edges of the window and, finding it unlocked, Matt slides into the apartment. His senses spread out into the warmth licking his bleeding skin, reaching nothing but the protests of his body. Matt whips his head, shoving past the alarms in his mind blaring hotly (he knows better than to trust any unlocked window), until he’s able to have a rough sketch of the place. Paying more attention, he can tell that there’s a thick blanket of stilled silence that, in any other day, would not be present just yet. A new shot of adrenaline stills most of the quake in his body, now creeping outside from what he smells is the laundry room and into the muteness of the living room. 

 

If only the rest of him care to catch up faster.

 

“I’d stop right there if I were you.” An ember voice by his ear stuns him dry, his foot retracting to a standing position. The rest of him by the fire escape rams into him with dizzying force: Moira stands to his right, her left hand holding a handgun with alarming ease, her stance the perfect standard for someone too familiar with violence. Stick and Elektra would've been impressed.  “Stand by the corner and face me. Move slowly, and don’t try reaching for the billy clubs strapped on your right thigh, or the stretch pole. Hands up, next to your head.”

 

It takes Matt every ounce of strength in his muscles to remember that she is not precisely the enemy, that he shouldn't hurt her… **_not yet_**. But the more he sets into the designated corner, the harder it becomes to not disarm her and have everything go to hell. Somehow, he remembers how to breathe slowly before rasping:

 

“I'm not trying to hurt you. If I was, I would've--” there's a very distinct swallow and deeper, harsher intake from Matt, the rest of his cocky, shitty statement trickling back down his throat. “All I want are answers to my questions. You give them to me and I'm out of here same way I came in.” His head jerks towards the laundry room, exposing a lovely plump-going-green bruise that Moira printed in her memory--from the first time she saw it at the beginning of the week--by his jaw, her mind overflowing conclusions that ignite each heartbeat and cell in her, the minute of silence infuriating the Devil with every passing second. His coiling panic almost willing to let his promise to Foggy be damned. Again. His voice comes harder, almost acid in its stillness: “Or, you can stay quiet and make this harder for both of us. I'm sure you know who I am, what I can do--”

 

“I'm holding a Glock 19 9mm caliber against you. Current magazine holds about 15 rounds, although 2 bullets are more than enough. Average range is around 50 meters.” Moira dispassionately ignores veiled threats, smacking Matt flat in the chest with one of her own, much less veiled though schooled. His head cocks reflexively to the side and up, jaw twisting and setting, tasting the implications, the possibilities, behind this. He has to shove forward without power play. He has to take the piece of knife out of his damned leg.

 

“I've been looking for information about you, asking some questions. Some have told me stories: one was about you almost eliminating all of the Yakuza from its roots in less than 24 hours. Another, on how you stopped the Canadian Anarchists and their attempted coup on D.C. in a way that, according to my sources, left no trace of the faction aside from scattered investigations and rumors told from the few that hauled ass but didn't dare to do a damn about it.” Moira nods in appreciation at how much he's gathered from the shadows so far.

 

“My reputation spreads faster in these sewers than I thought… though that is not why you're here. Tell me, _**Daredevil**_ : which part of the lore puts you in front of my gun?” Matt can feel the blood trickle steadily down his calf and pushes on, desperate to remove the grating in his flesh.

 

“The one thing that caught my attention was how you single-handedly infiltrated one of The Hand's most secure branches in Turkey and murdered all but a handful of people on a one mile radius in cold blood… just for target practice.”

 

“How many bones did you break before you could thicken my file?”

 

“Enough.”

 

“How many of them were _truthful_?” The Devil sneaks a sideways smirk at her despite his current position, basking in the impending moment where he pins her down much closer than any Yakuza member could even imagine:

 

“On record, you were in the military. Nobody knows **_what you truly are_** off the record. Those who did haven't been seen or heard in more than three years. All except _one_.”

 

“Vanessa Marianna-Fisk”

 

“First person I talked to begged me to break his bones and have him rot in a cell before crossing paths with your _ghost_. Most of them would change their perspective if they saw you flipping eggs on a kitchenette at 8 in the morning for two attorneys and a P.I.--”

 

“And all the criminals you've slammed behind bars would feel ashamed to know a blind attorney that switches pajamas put them there. The cases you worked on would be tainted, wouldn't they?” 

 

Matt snaps his right arm far enough to snatch her gun, but Moira acts faster: in just one second, her arm jerks forward and hooks Matt's wrist with hers, pulling him forward and out of balance. Blocking his left sucker punch, Moira pulls him close hooking her arm with his, the butt of the gun slamming on his nose at the same time her knee connects with the hollow of his chest, spit and blood rushing out with the little air he had left. Her boot connects again almost instantly with the back of his left knee, his teeth gritting, trying to hold back the scream building from the pain shooting up from the knife cutting deeper. His chin hits the floor, but he barely notices it, or how he's completely pinned down, right shoulder a breath away from dislocation, gun barrel kissing the side of his skull. Her voice comes through a moment later, breath ghosting behind his ear, unnervingly even compared to his pained gasps:

 

“I just wonder, how out of it are you right now? How much are you focusing on not bleeding out to notice? You probably didn't sniffed or whatever it is you do to make sure no one followed you.” His head tilts up to the door, ears catching the trained callousness of her heart--followed by the extreme familiarity of two heartbeats and a third, stronger one that orchestrates all of them into something strenuous. Moira cocks her gun almost seamlessly, the alarms in his mind deafening now, barrel grazing his nape, her voice the sound of his worst nightmare, heartbeat horrifyingly slow. “There's no point on hiding in the shadows anymore. Whoever it is that followed you to me, they're here. If you brought them to take me out, congrats-- _you're coming with me._ ”

 

Both of their heads whip up by the locks beeping open, door slamming against the wall, making its hinges tremble. Moira isn't expecting who comes in through the door, gun up and ready, as always.

 

“Y’know kid, it always pissed me off the way you can read into a person. Take this asshole for example: decides that the best way to proceed is to, what, break int'a’ya house try'na scare ya so he can stop shitting his pants. Well guess what you jackass: she knew who you were the moment you started talking. Ain't that right, girl?” Even behind what appears to be a loosely held gun, there’s no way Moira can ever mistake the booming, husky, oaktree-smoked voice of Frank Castle, always the steadiest thing she’s ever known, right after his stubbornness. She nods curtly in reply to his question. “Come on, Mo. Put the gun down.” Cooes a softer, more tender voice. To prove his point, Frank holsters his own gun, his posture relaxing minutely, enough for Moira to notice. If Foggy and Karen’s eyes get wider, their sockets will quit on them just outside the door. A blanket of silence falls over them for some moments, the only sounds coming from Raven scratching at the bedroom door, Moira’s minuscule grip adjustment anticipating movement for Matt.

 

She gives a long, slow nod, words coming out softer, rounder: “... If Karen puts hers down and comes in...” Sharp, cold lightning burns down Matt’s spine and breaks free through his left thigh: how far can her senses reach? And if she was this prepared to receive him… how many of his scouting visits has she been able to detect? There’s a pause after Frank whistles softly in a pattern, Moira’s gun lowering slowly a handful of seconds before the front door fully opens again.

 

“Nice and easy, guys. Come in calmly, evr’thin’s fine. Nelson, make sure the front and balcony door are secured. Check the laundry room window too; I don't trust his dumbass to look behind his back. Karen, go with him and do a quick sweep, just in case. But, uh, let out Raven first… please.” There’s a soft scratch before Karen's trembling hands yank the door open , and a bundle of salt and pepper hair trots out in a beeline to Moira, giving hee just enough time to move off of Matt, demandingly pawing the hand where she’s still gripping the gun, until she gives in and plops it on Frank's hand, front paws now on her shoulders as she whispers reassurances to Raven with every lick to her face.

 

Only now does Matt notices the shake of her hands wrist deep in fur, how her shoulders flex and coil in battling reflex, how her breath comes out in small, short intervals that pause and stretch slowly, painfully …

 

Her eyes open to look at Matth--no--the persona that comes with the mask, when a damp corner of his left thigh catches her eye again, the cut under it made prominent now by the living room lights. Now she can see how gray his skin is, the cold sweat on his lips, his body blending almost entirely into the floor, Matt laying on his right side to not make the pain worse. Raven’s saliva reminds her of blood splashing her face, pulling her out of this long, vivid flashback. Regardless of what he's here to do, he won't be another drop of blood coating her skin. The thought of Matthew dying by her hands now repulses her into action.

 

“He's--Frank, he's stabbed, don't move him.” Moira's mind switches gears again, lips whistling a pattern that springs Raven into methodical action, pulling a first aid backpack from a hidden compartment inside a foyer bench “Left thigh, seems deep, considering how much blood he's spilled even in the cold. Me immobilizing him made the wound deeper, hopefully not by much.” Without a second thought, Moira darts into the kitchen, scrubbing her hands, arms, face and neck quickly with searing water and soap, directions shooting from the sink in rapid succession.

 

**_‘Always clean blood before it dries. Wash it out.’_ **

 

A part of her mind--the one full of rationale that runs at a more normal, human speed--stops her for a handful of seconds to force her into taking in what's going on and just breathe, only for an instant. Give the human a chance to catch up with the survivor, the provider, and the rest of herself overall. Small, strong hands coil and twist tightly under running water, listening to the commotion in her living room full of steps, the smell of alcohol clutching at the walls, the quick sterilization of yoga mats, her blind attorney boss… whatever he is… sort of sitting by a corner with a solid 5% or more of blood loss. Right now, that's what's framing her mind, and she knows nothing else will be acceptable until that wound is treated. She can't have him get comatose in her hands even if she wanted to.

 

_ Damn it. _

 

Frank always told her that trying to save strays and blurring the lines between the enemy will get her in trouble one day. It will get her killed: Critically acclaimed vigilante who spied her for the last month--and happens to be a legitimately blind man--sits bleeding by a corner. 

 

She's starting to feel special now. 

 

While drying off, her eyes fall on her hot ebony skin and wonder how long ago was it that her mind and hands were used to heal someone, be it through them or other methods. The sound of fabric being torn and Frank's explosive, threatening tone reels her back in with the most whimsical thought: Frank always told her to open a new mental file of people saved and healed, because there's more of those than people killed by her. Now seems like the right moment to open that list. 

 

Her hands grab an apron and a bottle of liquor, her moderato frame adjusting to manage whatever situation comes with Murdock/Devil and his stupidly jagged thigh. Walking towards her futon-turned-OR now all flat and open, the most absurd thing, she notes, is that neither Franklin nor Karen has insisted Matthew to take his spa mask off, which means they already know who he is. Their loyalty would be endearing in any other circumstance. 

 

“Take your widow veil off. I am aware of your identity now, in case you didn't know.” Moira throws his way while slapping on gloves, her face twisting in a mixture of discomfort laced with methodical urgency: the wound is swelling at the corners, burning hot with something opaque between pulsing flesh. Her lips bark and water is getting boiled with vinegar, pincers getting dipped in liquor while her mind weaves another, disjointed thought to her consciousness.

 

Although part of her house rules is to not use any identity concealers around her--even though she might have just made that out--there's no way she could ever obligate him to anything that isn't critical. She's known this since day 1 at the office, and it's something she doesn't want to change, even during his extracurriculars. This, however, seems to be one of those critical exceptions.

 

Out of nowhere, Matthew's arms start flaring about, Franklin holding his legs while Frank does the heavy duty on the man in question. A sharp, gritting howl cuts through Frank's voice and Matthew curls his back from the mats, fresh blood drowning the debris deeper into his now numb area. Looking at the syringe in her hand, her eyes open in horror at the realization that she's been in autopilot for the last minute, moving in silence, injecting local anesthesia without warning on a blind man. Numbing an area on a blind man's leg without explanation. Right, that's a reason to panic. 

 

Her voice rises into his ears and, for some miracle, he focuses on her, the lower half of his face looking possessed by pain and a gut wrenching fear that takes her to a place she's all too familiar with. A fear that comes from a lifetime of wretchedness and uncertainty, of feeling defenseless against the crude world. Her mind cannot grasp this concept just yet, so whipping the gloves off, she bends over him, hands in his chest pressing in softly. All the blood loss is tossing him into delirious whimpers:

 

“Foggy I--my thigh. Foggy, Karen where--please, please someone _take it out_. I can hear it it’s--my bone, it scrapes my bone **please**! Moira, Moira please it’s right there, you gotta--just--” Seeing his frantic search for her hands, she places his on her wrists, thumbs right on the pulse point grounding them both. Moira takes a soft beath that coaxes him to follow suit, his panting weaved with griping grunts he tries to hide. There's just so much agony you can bottle before it explodes. After a handful of seconds, Moira's voice is soft amidst its urgency:

 

“You've got a piece of what looks like moulded metal among your tissue, too close to at least six major blood vessels, another five seem to be lacerated and it's too close to your muscles. I applied codeine diluted in saline solution to numb superficially, but it will still hurt. So much it will make you pass out, but it has to be after I take it out. I don't know what you do, I don't know how you do it, but clearly you know where this thing is better than I do. Right now all I want is to get that thing out of your leg. I don't care about anything else, I don't wanna know about anything else.” Moira's hands drift to his mask and stops, his hands gripping her wrists viscerally, his breathing heavy through his nose. The reason why he clings to hiding his face escapes her, but the way his lips tremble and his mouth is dry coils an emotion she knew once. “I need to move your mask to make sure you're conscious and aware of what I'm doing. I also need to check for concussions while not letting you bleed out. I need _you_ here, not Daredevil.”

 

In any other moment, none of her words would've made sense; here and now, with her heartbeat as open as he's ever heard and felt it above a 7 inch-long gash, Matt can't exactly control his body when he relaxes and whispers a strained “Okay.”

 

The topography of her hands are a mixture of soft calluses and extremely tender skin, fingers skating over his skin while removing the one barrier that separates Murdock from Daredevil, yet makes him one and the same. Now, something else has also been removed, and a path between them he'd no idea existed feels clear of debris. Gentle fingers follow the mask's edges up his cheeks, over his forehead and down his scalp, the three to four second contact seeking for bumps and swelling, no doubt. But, her hands’ search with near reverence through his hair reminds him of a candid warmth he almost forgot exists. His chest tightens with his eyes and he focuses on the piece of knife grinding inside his leg. Moira's now gloved hands become strong and dexter, cleaning the outside of the cut while getting ready for extraction.

 

“Guide me.” comes the soft, quiet order, coaxing his faint mouth to weave through.

 

“How much do you kno--”

 

“I was trained to--I have a nursing degree, specialized in ER and OR. I will walk you through my degree and even show you my credentials from the military later but right now, I need to know where that thing is.”

 

“Are your degrees in Braille?”

 

“Matt I swear to God!” Foggy’s voice is uncharacteristically booming, considering how far away he sounds from Matt. His whole world is sloshing by in pain, sounds and sensations being distorted until Moira expanded the wound without warning.

 

“I'm starting without you. Lemme know when you're ready to join. Karen, hold his skin with these pincers in this angle to keep the area open. I'm going in”

 

“Wait! No, don't--not from that angle! It's digging in deeper! Open the skin up h-higher. Th-the pincers--hold the skin open back instead of up, it--” Matt can feel the skin peeling back, the piece of knife sliding upwards like a bud on spring, rewinding the course it took. Hums of pain leaked through each breath, and it was all he could do to be able to talk hoarsely: “Make sure you can see the piece. If-if you can’t then it'll just…” another deep breath “pincers are in the right place. Make sure you--hold it tight and t-take it out w’the same move it got in. Down'n then--” Whatever trance he has is taken by the absurd pain the knife piece leaves as it exits, mould stench blasting out with copper and iron coating its smell, blood dripping from it into a metal container where it clunks a couple of times before laying still. Matt can't make his body untangle, his focus torn between his lungs and their inability to inhale past the excruciation burning through his flesh and remaining conscious. Foggy's gaping curses sound farther the more Moira makes his thigh writhe.

 

**_‘Just a minute more.’_ **

 

“I'm disinfecting the area with water and vinegar to properly cut away any contaminated tissue. There's too many blood vessels compromised, so I’ll have to cauterize the inside to be able to close the wound properly. The pain will make him pass out Karen, and I have to be ready to stabilize him once he goes into shock during cauterization. He's almost there right now, and I need to make sure it goes nowhere past being passed out by pain. Get the duffle bag from the foyer bench and pull out the things I tell you.” Karen pulls the duffle bag and washes her hands in a hurry, looking at Matt twitch while Moira cleans and cuts as fast as she can, vinegar water turning inevitably reddish.

 

All the materials now available, Matt resurfaces enough to hear again about the cauterization, the stitching, the tetanus shot, the IV. But it's all too much for him to grasp, and it's so cold he can feel his bones shivering. Which they are, but he figures it's not because of the cold. For a moment, his mind is sound again and the room grows pristinely clear. He can feel the wind Foggy’s lashes make when he blinks, smell Frank’s leather jacket whenever he pushes Matt down, taste all the stressors on Moira's sweat and for one instant he's ready to shout and tell everyone to calm down, that he's ok and will make it without bleeding out on someone's floor. Just then, his skin heats up with the testing of a gas lighter, making his head tilt to the left. His lips try to mumble something that makes no sense, even to himself, to which Moira replies that she's starting the cauterization. Suddenly, his whole nervous system combusts the instant fire licks inside his skin, air pungent with the burning scent of blood and hair and tissue. His head buries into the mats, veins popping, fists coiling between guttural pants of air and howls pushed back by a locked jaw. After an absurd amount of time and agony, there's a collective sigh by the absence of blood, Moira's silent words plunging him into welcoming darkness.

 

“I'm sorry for all this pain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's taken so so long, but things and life happen this chapter has been ready, crafted and re-crafted so many times these months I honestly lost track.
> 
> It's such a pivotal chapter, it holds so much meaning for me when it comes to character base and development. I didn't want to give anything less than what I'd like to read in a fic.
> 
> Also I knoooowwwww a sort of cliffhanger. I'm sorry! Next chapter is going to be an exposition, so that's why.
> 
> There's going to be more of Karen/Foggy/Frank. They're so awesome I find it challenging to write them.
> 
> The tags! They shall be Ammended and made somewhat better (????). They're all over the place but so am I -shrugs-.
> 
> Leave comments and say what you think about our girl now that we got a solid glimpse of how BADASS she is. :)))

**Author's Note:**

> My first Daredevil fic. Still can't believe I pulled it out because come on, who needs sleep and cold meds? 
> 
> I'm so grateful to Soulfire and Ceterisparibus for moving me with their comments and, specifically, Ceter's work to sit down and pen this. The mere fact of shovelling through everything and posting this is a milestone. I'm so happy I can put this out there, no matter who reads it.  
> In case you asked, my character is not blind, but still has a service dog. :) I won't say a thing more, besides the hour or more spent doing research on service dogs.
> 
> I'm sleep deprived so please bare with any needed tweaks until I can seldom coherently revise it again. Thanks again for reading! xx


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